


Magically Delicious

by the_rat_wins



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bartender Ian, Bottom Mickey Milkovich, First Meetings, Hand Jobs, M/M, Magician Ian, Street & Stage Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 21:05:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6210106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_rat_wins/pseuds/the_rat_wins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey reaches into his back pocket, and hands the guy a ten-dollar bill, letting their fingers brush.</p><p>The guy starts to fold the bill, and Mickey doesn’t blink or look away, but when he hands it back, it says IAN in black marker across the bottom, with a number scrawled below.</p><p>(Mickey has a magical evening, or whatever.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Magically Delicious

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Cam and his stupid hands and his [stupid magic trick](http://the-rat-wins.tumblr.com/post/130651294552/riot-nrrrd-elliotzimet-coaching-cameron).
> 
> Originally posted the opening scene [on my Tumblr](http://the-rat-wins.tumblr.com/post/130658081487/uh-oh-this-wasnt-what-i-was-supposed-to-be) a few months ago, but here's the rest! :)
> 
> AMAZING TITLE courtesy of [Kat!](http://avalonia320.tumblr.com/)

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Mickey mutters as Mandy tugs him through the door. “ _This_ is what you made me clean up for? A bar with fucking magic tricks?”

“It’s my birthday, and that asshole dumped me last week. You’re doing whatever the hell I want,” Mandy says dangerously, her hand still gripping his wrist.

“Fine,” he mutters. “But this place is cheesy as fuck. Are you turning twenty-five, or five?”

The neon sign of a rabbit popping out of a top hat that’s hanging over the bar proves his point pretty nicely, he thinks, but Mandy’s unfazed. 

“Tina’s boyfriend took her here for her birthday, and she said it was amazing.”

Mickey sneers. “Oh, so now we’re playing keeping up with the Joneses with your trashy fucking coworker and her boyfriend?”

She shrugs. “Yeah, so what?”

“So, it’s a waste of fucking money. Unless one of them pulls a hundred-dollar bill out of your ass or something.”

“Well, they won’t be able to pull it out of yours, unless you yank that stick out first,” Mandy spits back. But he can tell she’s actually kind of hurt that he’s being an asshole about it, so he relents a little. It  _is_ her birthday.

“All right, fine, enough with the crocodile tears. What you do you want?” he says, gesturing toward the bar.

Mandy’s face immediately breaks into a grin, and damn, it looks like he just got played. Eh, whatever. He can put up with a bunch of obnoxious magic tricks in a trashy bar with red velvet curtains for a few hours. She’s gonna have to do something fucking epic for  _his_ birthday, though. Maybe front-row tickets of some kind.

“Rum and coke, and the redhead’s number,” she says, nodding toward the farthest bartender, who’s tall and on the lanky side, but with nice arms, especially in the black T-shirt he has on. The guy is shaking a martini or something, and that definitely doesn’t hurt. Neither does the wide grin on his face as he talks to the guy next to him, then throws his head back with a laugh.

Damn. Mickey doesn’t like knowing that he shares his sister’s taste in guys.

“Whatever,” he mutters, elbowing his way between people to get to the redhead. “Didn’t come here to be your damn wingman.”

“Number!” Mandy yells after him. “It’s my BIRTHDAY, asshole!”

Mickey flips her off over his head, and finally manages to make it up to the bar. The redhead finishes the drink he’s making, and presents it with a flourish to the blonde girl who ordered it. All her friends giggle, and Mickey rolls his eyes.

The redhead takes the five-dollar tip the girl gives him—shit, how much are these fucking drinks, if people are tipping five bucks?—and folds it a couple of times. When he unfolds it, there’s a drawing on it—a girl with long hair, kinda like hers. All the girls squeal and clap, but Mickey’s guessing the guy has a bunch of generic ones up his sleeve. Or down his pants. Whatever.

Now Mickey’s looking at the guy’s pants.  _Shit._  He jerks his eyes up, and sees the bartender looking back at him, eyebrows raised.

“What can I get you?” the guy says, but his voice is neutral, friendly. Not flirty at all.

“Uh, two rum and cokes,” Mickey mutters. He doesn’t have to see Mandy to know that she’s giving him a death glare. Actually, even the bartender seems notice, judging from the way he’s looking over Mickey’s shoulder.

“That it?” the bartender says. Mickey can feel himself blushing. God, his sister is the fucking worst. Why couldn’t she have picked someone lame? Then Mickey could have just threatened the guy’s number out of him

“And, your, uh, number,” he finally grits out. “You know. If that’s—on the menu, or whatever.”

“‘On the menu’?” the guy echoes back at him incredulously. He reaches below the bar and pours two shots of well rum, then tops them off from the soda gun, all without taking his eyes off Mickey. 

Mickey would be fine with just dropping dead right now. Isn’t this place a fucking magic dungeon or whatever? Maybe a trapdoor in the floor will open up and he can disappear.

“For my sister,” he manages after a second, staring down at the bar. Shit, the guy even has nice hands. Long fingers. God _damn_ it. “It’s her birthday.”

The bartender slides him the two drinks. “On the house,” he says. “Since it’s her birthday.” He nods at Mandy over Mickey’s shoulder. “No can do on the number, though. Not unless she’s a magician, too.”

Mickey finally looks up at the guy, and sees a little edge to his smile now. “Huh?”

“Like, if she knows how to magically turn herself into a guy.”

“Yeah?” Mickey says, his stomach swooping.  _Is he—_

“Now if it was  _your_  birthday—” the guy says slowly.

“We’re twins,” Mickey shoots back, faster than he’s ever said anything in his life.

The bartender laughs, his eyes bright. “That so?”

“Fuck no,” Mickey says. “Can I get it anyway?”

“Maybe. Can I get my tip?” the guy says, but his smile is still teasing, not annoyed.

Mickey reaches into his back pocket, and hands the guy a ten-dollar bill, letting their fingers brush.

The guy starts to fold the bill, and Mickey doesn’t blink or look away, but when he hands it back, it says IAN in black marker across the bottom, with a number scrawled below.

“Don’t wait too long to use it,” Ian says. “You know, magic stuff disappears after midnight, sometimes. And my shift is over at two.” He holds Mickey’s gaze for a second, and then gives him a kind of inviting smile. Jesus.

“OK, Cinderella,” Mickey says. His whole body feels light and kind of floaty, like he downed both those drinks and maybe few shots of something stronger on top of it. He blinks at Ian for another second, before someone wanting to order a drink elbows him, hard. 

Jerked out of his daze, Mickey grabs their drinks, and scrams, but not before throwing one giddy look back over his shoulder at Ian, who’s looking at him and grinning. Fuck, he looks good.

“So?” Mandy says eagerly when he hands her the drink. “Got my present or what?”

Mickey takes a gulp of his rum and coke, and hopes that bringing people back from the dead is something Ian’s good at, too, because he’s pretty sure his sister is about to murder him.

“Uh, yeah. About that . . .” He rubs his neck. “Good news, bad news.”

“Bad news first,” Mandy says without a pause.

“The guy’s gay.”

“Fuck!” Mandy says. “Well, then what the fuck is the good news?”

Mickey grimaces, then flashes her the ten-dollar bill with Ian’s number.

“Seriously?!” Mandy says. “Is this a fucking joke? You’re stealing my birthday present?”

Mickey takes another sip of his drink and shrugs. “Don’t think it’s you. Just, uh, the way you’re built.”

“That makes it worse,” she grumbles. “Means I would have had a shot, if you’re his type.” She slugs him in the shoulder. “You’re a prick, Mickey.”

“Apparently he’s into that,” Mickey says, and Mandy rolls her eyes.

“Shut the fuck up,” she says. “Can’t believe we go out for my birthday and you’re the one who gets a number. Fucking classic.” She knocks back the rum and coke, and hands the empty glass to him. “You were right, this place blows. Let’s go get pizza or something.”

“Eh, it’s growing on me,” Mickey says, grinning. Mandy turns and glares at him. “I was fucking kidding. Jesus. Let’s go.” Ian’s number is tucked in his pocket and he still kind of can’t believe it. He gulps his drink down, and drops both their glasses on the bar. Ian’s at the far end again, his back to Mickey. It’s not like he can try to flag him down or anything. But maybe Mickey looks over his shoulder on their way out the door anyway, just to be sure.

The pizza place is a hole in the wall, but the slices are fucking delicious. They each get two—cheese and sausage—and the grease-soaked paper plate makes Mickey’s hand warm as they stand outside and eat.

“So,” he says as they each finish their last crusts. “What else do you want to do? It’s your big night or whatever. Wanna hit up another bar?”

Mandy folds the paper plate in half and chucks it in the trash can next to him. “Whatever,” she says. “Yeah, another bar, I guess.” But she doesn’t look excited.

She really is upset about the number thing, more than he thought.

“Hey,” he says. “Look, I—”

“Forget about it, Mick,” she says. “Guys are fucking awful anyway, you know?” She laughs. “I mean, no offense? But it’s true.”

“Yeah, I don’t have an answer for that,” he says. “Guys are basically trash. Present company included.”

Mandy sighs, jamming her hands in her jacket pockets. Mickey looks down at the sidewalk, then tips his head back to look at the sky. No clouds, but there’s still too much light in the city for stars.

It’s the end of spring, and the night air is cool. But it smells alive, somehow.

“Let’s go see a movie,” he says after another minute of silence. “Your pick.” They haven’t done that in forever. Mandy perks up a little.

“Yeah?” she says.

“Sure. My treat,” he says. “Popcorn _or_ candy, though. Not both. I ain’t made of money.”

“Junior Mints?” Mandy says, and Mickey rolls his eyes.

“Man, I hate that toothpaste shit,” he mutters. Mandy is leaning closer, nudging his shoulder with her own and smiling wickedly. “Yes, OK, fine. You can have your stupid toothpaste candy.”

“Thanks, Mick,” she says, and she actually has a real smile on her face now, even though it’s kind of a small one.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, and dumps his own paper plate in the trash, wiping his hands on his jeans. “So, what do you want? Horror movie?”

“That new zombie one looked pretty cool,” Mandy said. “See what the movie times are at River East.”

“Fucking tourists,” he mutters, pulling out his phone.

“Who gives a shit, it’s the closest one.”

“Yeah, but I think they might have my picture up somewhere.”

Mandy rolls her eyes. “Is there a movie theater in Chicago you haven’t been kicked out of?”

“Like, ones on the North Side. No wait, me and Iggy—”

Mandy smacks him. “You looking up movie times or what, asshole?”

“We can probably make the 10:30,” he says. “If you wanna stop beating me up and start walking.”

“No, I’m pretty sure I can do both,” Mandy says. She swats him again, up alongside the head, then starts sauntering down the street. Mickey shoves her lightly from behind, and then slings an arm around her shoulders instead, and she grins at him. Fuck it, it’s her birthday. He’s allowed to be nice or whatever.

 

The movie is all right, but Mickey’s distracted. Remembering the look on Ian’s face, the smile he gave him. He shifts in his seat. There’s something seriously wrong with getting turned on in a movie theater while he’s sitting next to his sister watching a bunch of teenagers get their faces chewed on. But the movie that’s playing in his mind is a hell of a lot different than the one on the screen.

He wonders if Ian tops. Hopes so. Those fingers, stretching him open, or holding him down. Gripping the back of Mickey’s neck as Mickey slides his mouth around his dick . . .

“Fuck,” he murmurs to himself.

By the time the movie is over, he’s fucking worked up. Sort of nervous, too. Mandy suggests getting a couple of beers at a sports bar a few blocks from the theater. It’s crawling with bros, and Mandy has more luck pulling their attention than she did with Ian, but as far as he can tell, she’s not actually going anywhere with it. Just catch and release.

It’s past one now. Mickey wonders how much longer she’s gonna want to stay out. He feels kind of bad, planning to ditch Mandy on her birthday . . . but on the other hand, her birthday was technically yesterday. And his sister might be OK, sometimes, but he’s not passing this guy up just to save her wounded ego. Not happening.

Salvation comes by text.

“Tina and Eric are at some fancy-ass Gold Coast afterparty,” Mandy says. “Wanna come with?”

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “That definitely sounds like something I want to do.” When Mandy looks up at him, he gives her a _What the fuck are you talking about?_ look, and she rolls her eyes and goes back to typing.

“Just ‘no’ would have been fine, Mick.”

“No,” he says. “I’m good, thanks.”

She looks up again, seems to catch something on his face—he doesn’t even fucking want to know what.

“Gonna go back and meet that guy, huh?” she says, with a little twist of her mouth.

“Maybe,” he mutters.

“Whatever. Take notes. I’m talking measurements.”

“Aw, _fuck_ , Mandy.”

“Ruined it for you, did I?” she says, grinning. “Good. You deserve it.”

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing his hands on his jeans. “Whatever. Happy birthday, bitch.”

“Have fun, asshole.” She slugs his shoulder on the way out, but not as hard as she could have, so maybe she’s cool with it after all.

Alone now, he swallows, mouth dry. Is he seriously doing this?

Yeah, according to his dick, he is.

Being on the bus back to the bar is even worse without Mandy or zombies to distract him. He takes out his phone, fiddles with it for a second. Thinks about sending Ian a message. He closes his eyes and tips his head back instead, trying not to think too much about it. Hell, maybe by the time he gets to the bar, Ian will have decided he doesn’t want it after all and just gone home.

In fact, as soon as the thought pops into his head, he’s pretty sure that’s what’s gonna happen. He’s just making a fucking idiot out of himself because some flirty bartender was jerking him around for kicks. Actually, he should probably stand this asshole up before he gets stood up first.

But the bus is coming to the stop, and the bar is only a few blocks away, and it’s 1:50, so Ian’ll be done in ten minutes. So, what’s he going to lose by hanging around for a few minutes? Just in case?

His dick is still in favor.

He gets off the bus and stops on the corner, a couple of doors down from the bar. Close enough that he can see anyone coming in or out, but not so close that he looks like he’s going back in.

He checks his phone. 1:51. Fine.

Takes out his smokes, lights up.

The door to the bar opens, and a couple of people come out. An Asian girl in a sparkly top, a scrawny white guy in jeans and a T-shirt . . .

And Ian.

He has his phone in his hand, and he looks up to say good-bye to the couple, who both hug him. Then he leans against the wall, one leg bent up against the bricks, like he’s some kind of goddamn flamingo. Still staring at his phone.

It’s five minutes till 2. Mickey could go up to him, look like the creepy stalker that he apparently is right now.

Or he could wait and see if Ian hangs around. If Ian’s actually waiting for him.

Mickey takes another nervous drag of his cigarette, then drops it on the pavement, stomps it out. Fucking waste.

Ian glances up from his phone, and Mickey almost has a heart attack, thinking that he’s been spotted standing here like a weirdo. But Ian’s only looking straight ahead, not up and down the block.

1:59.

2:00.

Fuck it. Ian’s still here, doesn’t seem to be waiting for anyone from the club. Mickey put his phone away, sticks his hands in his pockets, and walks toward him, eyes fixed on Ian’s face. He sees the second that Ian notices someone’s coming toward him, sees his facial expression change: eyebrows raised (surprise that Mickey showed?), and then a smile. Ian’s eyes flick appreciatively up and down, and Mickey wishes he’d worn . . . something else. Something nicer. He looks fine, probably. But still.

Whatever, Ian doesn’t seem to care, so.

“Hey,” Ian says when Mickey stops in front of him. He puts his phone in his jacket pocket—it’s brown leather, looks good on him—and stands up straight, moving closer to Mickey in the process.

Ian’s a little taller than him, and his shoulders are maybe a little wider. Mickey has an urge to close the space between them, to see where their bodies line up . . . hips, arms, mouths. He’s staring at Ian’s mouth.

“So . . .” Ian says, and Mickey realizes that he never responded.

“Uh, did you want to get a drink, or—” Mickey says, belatedly.

Ian chuckles. “I mean, to be honest, I’m not real big on going to bars in my free time,” he says. “I was just planning on heading home. Long shift and everything.”

“Oh,” Mickey says. The stupid floaty balloon feeling inside him is deflating. He knew he shouldn’t have come. “Uh, OK. Sorry that I—” He starts to back away.

Ian reaches out and grabs his wrist. “And you’re welcome to come with me,” he adds.

Mickey looks up at him, sees the smile on his face. Not mocking. Something else. Something softer. Ian lets go, looking at him hopefully.

“Oh,” Mickey says. “Yeah. Sure.”

He swallows. It’s not like he didn’t assume they were going to end up there. He just thought he was going to have some more time to prepare or something. (Like he hasn’t been thinking about this for hours already tonight.)

Ian’s smile gets wider, a little bit of a dirty edge to it now. “All right,” he says. “We can walk to my place from here.”

“Lead the way,” Mickey says, gesturing grandly to cover up his discomfort. Shit, this is happening. He’s fucking sober, and he’s going back to this random guy’s place. Like that’s a thing that he does.

Ian raises his eyebrows again and then gives him a nod and heads down the street, Mickey walking next to him.

The silence grows, and Mickey realizes he has no fucking idea what to say to the guy. Fuck. This would be so much easier if they were drunk. If they were just in the bathroom or an alley or an anonymous hotel room somewhere.

“You and your sister have a good rest of the night?” Ian asks after a second.

“Went to a movie,” Mickey says.

“Oh, cool, which one?”

“Some zombie thing.”

“Nice!” Ian says, way too enthusiastic. He sounds about twelve years old. “Was gonna sneak into that one some weekend. What’d you think?”

“Wasn’t really paying much attention,” Mickey says honestly. He’s watching Ian out of the corner of his eye.

Ian looks over at him, and Mickey jerks his eyes front, but not in time. Ian’s grin widens.

“Yeah, I think I might have screwed up some drink orders tonight,” he says. His voice is almost sheepish, and Mickey doesn’t know what the fuck to do with that little confession. His stomach does a weird little surge—nerves, excitement. Good old-fashioned lust.

“So, uh, is your place much farther?” he asks.

“’Bout ten minutes,” Ian says.

“Ah,” Mickey says. He can feel himself hardening up a little in his jeans. Shit. He can keep it together for ten more minutes, can’t he?

They’re on a more residential street now, and the buildings are nice—nicer than anything he saw growing up—but not too big, or too fancy. Just nice.

He wonders if Ian grew up here. Wonders why he went after Mickey, who blew his stupid pick-up line, and ordered the cheapest drinks on the menu, and might clean up all right in a nice shirt and clean jeans, but wasn’t exactly spit-and-polished for a hook-up tonight.

“So . . .” Mickey says after another silence. “Uh, how’d you learn the tricks and stuff?”

“The magic?” Ian asks.

“Magic, yeah, whatever,” Mickey says. “The dollar bills and shit.”

Ian laughs. “Uh, haven’t you ever heard of the whole ‘magicians can’t give away their secrets’ thing?”

“Didn’t ask how you did it,” Mickey says, with fake patience. This guy’s a fucking smartass. He kind of likes it. “Asked how you learned it.”

“How do I know you’re not just angling for my job?” Ian says, squinting. “Maybe you want to learn it yourself and replace me.” He wiggles his eyebrows, looking evil.

“Not gonna be a problem,” Mickey says. “Trust me.”

“Why not?” Ian asks. He’s looking at Mickey as they walk, his eyes warm and friendly and interested. Mickey tries not to enjoy it too much.

“Not my kinda thing, I guess,” Mickey says after a second, when he realizes that his first answer—“it’s too fucking lame”—probably won’t go over big with Ian.

“Too lame, huh?” Ian says, and Mickey can’t hold back his laugh.

“Hey, you said it, man, not me.”

“Fair enough,” Ian says. “I picked it up in high school. I was more into sports, judo, ROTC, all that crap. But I got in a fight my junior year and broke a leg. I was stuck inside all fucking winter. My little sister, she got me all these books from the library, trying to keep me from climbing the walls, right? And one of them had these dumb tricks.” He smiles a little. “It was fun. Making something appear out of nowhere, making people look one way, instead of the other.” He wiggles his fingers, and Mickey tries to suppress the shiver that goes through him. “The art of misdirection.”

“Art. Right,” Mickey says, and Ian shrugs.

“Well, it came in handy when this place opened up. I had another bartending gig, but this place is more low-key, and the tips are insane. Sure, it’s a ton of tourists, but there are worse things.”

“Guess so,” Mickey says. The bars he goes to are usually just places to buy beer and shoot pool, but he’s guessing the place Ian worked before was . . . a different kind of thing.

“Anyway,” Ian says after a second, “what do you do?”

“Work in a machine shop,” Mickey says shortly. Not that he’s not proud to have an actual answer to that question that won’t get him arrested. But it’s not exactly a conversation-starter.

“Cool!” Ian says, and Mickey’s not sure if he’s faking interest or what. No reason for him to bother—Mickey’s already coming back to his apartment, anyway. “What’s your position? Oh. No, I mean—” He trails off, laughing awkwardly, and Mickey snorts. Lets that one slide.

“Maintenance technician, and I do some welding,” he says. “Basically fix our equipment when it breaks, and try to make sure the stuff the engineers come up with actually stays in one piece.”

“Sounds cool,” Ian says. “My brother, Lip, he—”

“So, are we close to your place, or like . . .” Mickey’s not trying to be rude or anything, but fucking seriously, he does not give a shit about Ian’s brother right now. Or welding. Or magic.

Ian laughs, sounding fucking delighted. “Two more blocks,” he says. “You need anything? Water? A snack? There’s a drugstore.”

“Seriously?” Mickey says, then he sees the smirk on Ian’s face. “Fine. You got lube and condoms, smartass?”

“No, I’m working on my STD collection. You know, collect five, get the sixth one free.”

Mickey snorts. “Guess that explains it.”

Ian stops. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he says.

Mickey rolls his eyes, gestures around them. “Look at this fucking neighborhood. Don’t fucking act like you’re not slumming it, bringing me home, all right?”

“Hey,” Ian says, turning to look at him. “Don’t assume you know shit about me.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows. “Fine, whatever,” he says. “Only a couple of things I really wanna know about you right now, anyway.”

They’re facing each other in the middle of the sidewalk, and the tension between them shifts. Ian takes a step closer and wraps his hand around the back of Mickey’s neck as he leans in, his breath warm is against Mickey’s mouth. Mickey lips are parted when Ian kisses him for the first time. He’s been half-turned on for what seems like hours now, and the warmth of the kiss sends a pulse through him, fast and hot. He makes a soft noise against Ian’s mouth, and then opens wider, letting him in.

Ian’s other hand in on his waist now, pulling him close, then sliding down lower, around his ass. God, that feels good, Ian’s fingers, even through Mickey’s jeans. Mickey pushes back into it, then rocks forward, toward the warmth of Ian’s body, the heat of his mouth.

The kiss breaks, and they both take a breath. Mickey realizes he closed his eyes, and opens them again. Ian’s looking back at him, almost startled.

“Let’s, uh,” Ian says, and swallows. “Go upstairs?”

Mickey nods.

 

They go . . . slow. It’s not what Mickey was expecting. After the hours of waiting, he figured they’d be stripped and on their way to fucking in a couple of minutes.

But the kiss is still burning through him, and the look on Ian’s face matches what he’s feeling: a kind of shock. He’s had hookups. This feels . . . different.

Ian’s fingers slip under his shirt, down the back of his jeans and his boxers, and Mickey’s arms are up around Ian’s neck, pulling him in for another kiss as Ian’s hands close on his ass again and squeeze.

Mickey breaks the kiss and reaches down to unzip his jeans, Ian letting go of him to help him pull them off, then work his boxers down as well—slowly, so he can feel the fabric sliding over his ass, his hardening cock.

“Lie down on the bed,” Ian whispers against his mouth, and Mickey backs up, stripping off his shirt as he goes. Then he lies back on Ian’s messed-up sheets, and Ian stretches out next to him, leaning on one elbow. He’s still in his black T-shirt and his jeans, but his bare feet look oddly vulnerable.

He reaches out and softly strokes Mickey’s cock with one finger, barely touching him.

“Uh, think it’s gonna take a little more than that,” Mickey offers, and Ian looks up at him, smiling.

“What, you think I don’t know what I’m doing with my hands?”

“Just sayin’, man. I’ve been jerking cocks for a lot of years, especially this one. A finger’s not gonna get us anywhere quick. Unless it’s going up my—”

“We’ll get there, trust me,” Ian says. “Just . . . let me try this?”

Mickey puts his hands up. “All right, man, whatever.”

Ian moves further down the bed, so his head is near Mickey’s hip, and he’s staring right at Mickey’s cock and the dark coarse hair around it. He reaches out again and rests his fingertips right near the base, stroking it gently with his thumb.

“What,” Mickey says, “never seen one before?” Truth is, he’s fucking nervous with Ian looking at him like that. It’s—awkward. Intimate. Weird.

“Close your eyes, if you want,” Ian says.

“Want you to fucking jerk me off,” Mickey grumbles, but he closes his eyes anyway. Tries to focus on the light touches Ian’s giving him. It’s easier when he’s not looking at the top of Ian’s head and wondering what he’s thinking. Or if he showered well enough for Ian to be this up close and personal right now. Jesus.

“Saw you staring at my hands before,” Ian says. “At the bar.”

Mickey swallows. “Yeah? So what?”

Ian shifts a little, moving closer to him. His hand is wrapped around Mickey’s dick now, finally, but his grip is still too loose for any real friction. Just a tease.

“This what you were thinking about?” Ian asks. “My fingers around around your dick?”

Mickey’s silent for a second. He can hear his own breath, harsh. Ian’s thumb pets the head of his dick, in tight little circles. Once. Twice.

 _“Fuck,”_ Mickey whispers. He can feel himself starting to leak under Ian’s touch.

“That a yes?” Ian says.

“No,” Mickey says, and pushes up into Ian’s fist, searching for more friction, then drops his hips back onto the bed with a groan of frustration.

“No?” Ian squeezes him. “What were you thinking about?”

“You fucking me with ’em,” Mickey says, and then cries out when he feels Ian’s tongue against the head of his dick. His grip is finally hard enough now, working Mickey in steady strokes. It feels like he has Mickey’s dick just inside his mouth, so his tongue or his lips touch it every couple of seconds.

Mickey can’t help it—he has to see. He opens his eyes and looks down where Ian is crouched over him. Sees his mouth, open and hungry. Sees those long fingers wrapped around him. Ian’s not looking back at him, too focused on his dick to even notice that Mickey’s staring at him.

“Gonna do it?” Mickey asks, eyes fixed on the flicker of Ian’s tongue.

Ian answers with another long lick, and Mickey drops his head back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling and thrusting up into Ian’s hand, his mouth.

“Holy _shit_ ,” he says. Ian’s other hand is down between his own legs, touching himself through his jeans. Mickey wants to see it. Even more than he wants to come into Ian’s mouth. So he reaches down and buries his fingers in Ian’s hair.

“Hey,” he says. “Hey, c’mon, I want—take your fucking clothes off, man.”

Ian raises his head and finally looks back at him. His eyes are half-lidded, and his mouth is wet.

“That what you want?” he says, sounding a little breathless.

“Already told you what I want,” Mickey says.

“You don’t want to finish?” Ian says, with another slow stroke to Mickey dick. Mickey’s eyes roll back at the feeling, but he pulls it together. Eyes on the prize.

“I like coming with something inside me,” he says. Ian’s eyes widen, and Mickey likes it, that look of surprise and hunger. He grins down at him.

Ian lets go of Mickey and strips off his shirt—he’s just as tight underneath as the black T-shirt had promised—then goes for his jeans. Mickey watches avidly, just short of actually licking his lips.

OK, he licks his lips.

Ian doesn’t disappoint. Seeing his dick—long, hard, thicker around the middle—Mickey feels instantly, stupidly possessive of it. He fucking _covets_ it, wants it inside him like he owns it.

“Lube?” Mickey says, his eyes still fixed on Ian’s dick.

Ian laughs, and leans over him to grab a foil packet and a bottle out of the mess of stuff on the table next to the bed. His dick brushes against Mickey’s stomach, and Mickey can’t help it—he fucking pushes up into it. Ian drops the stuff next to them on the bed, and then comes back to straddle Mickey on his hands and knees, both of them staring down at Ian’s dick rubbing against Mickey’s skin. Ian bends his knees so his body slides down a little lower, and his cock nudges Mickey’s.

They both breathe in sharply, and Mickey mutters, “Fuck,” grabbing for the lube. He pops it open and slicks up his fingers, then reaches down between his legs.

“Spread ’em,” Ian says, his hands gentle under Mickey’s knees, and his eyes fixed lower. He pushes them apart, and Mickey lets him, likes the way it makes him feel. Loose. Warm. Wanted.

He’s fingered himself enough times that it should be routine at this point, but having Ian here is making everything hotter. He slips the first finger in, savoring the slick, wet sound. Hungry for it. Ian’s staring, and he likes that too. Slides another finger in fast, showing off a little. How good he can take it.

Ian slides one hand down the back of his thigh, moving closer and closer. “Can I?” he says.

“Do it,” Mickey says, then moans as one of Ian’s fingers slides in next to his own.

“God,” Ian mutters, still staring.

Mickey slides his own fingers out and grips his knees with both hands, pulling himself open. One of Ian’s hands comes up to rest against Mickey’s stomach, fingers spread, touching as much of his skin as possible. With the other, Ian presses in two fingers, fucks Mickey with them, in and out, steadily.

It’s good. Really good. But—

“Not enough,” Mickey says. “C’mon.” Ian nods, and pushes in three. Mickey can’t hold back a soft cry, and he feels himself tightening up around them, then relaxing again. His eyes drift shut, focused on the feeling of Ian inside him, just like he imagined. Ian strokes over that spot, and Mickey feels his hips jerk with how good it feels. Ian’s other hand presses him back down.

 _“Fuck_ , _”_ he pants out. “Shit, right there . . .” His cock is hard and aching, untouched against his stomach, but he’s so focused on the feeling in his ass, he doesn’t even care.

“You ready?” Ian murmurs.

Mickey nods. He can feel his legs shaking a little with the strain, but he stays still while Ian slowly drags his fingers out, leaving Mickey open and ready.

Ian rips the condom open and rolls it on, Mickey’s eyes tracking him. Then he crawls up the bed until he’s face to face with Mickey. Ian reaches down and tries to guide himself in, but he can’t seem to look away from Mickey’s face, his mouth, and he misses once, twice.

Mickey smirks and reaches down to grab him, feels the hard, heavy weight of him in his hand. Then he presses the head against himself, and takes it inside, slow but without stopping. He hisses with the stretch—but fuck, it’s perfect.

“Ohmygod,” Ian says all in a rush. His face is open and wild, and his cock jerks inside him. Mickey laughs, then locks his legs around Ian’s back, pulling him even closer. Ian presses in so deep, Mickey loses his breath for a second. His rim feels hot and stretched, but there’s no real pain. Just the heat, spreading through him.

Ian leans down, and they breathe together for a couple of seconds. Then Ian makes a soft noise and his mouth is on Mickey’s, open and warm. His tongue inside Mickey’s mouth, his dick in Mickey’s ass . . . Ian is everywhere, surrounding him, and Mickey relaxes into it completely. Being taken like this.

Ian breaks the kiss, pulls out again—Mickey winces a little as the thickest part of his dick stretches him wide—then pushes back in, faster. “’S good,” Mickey hears himself mumble. “Keep going.”

Ian nods, his lips close to Mickey’s ear. “Shit, you’re tight,” he whispers. It could be cheesy dirty talk, but he doesn’t really sound cool when he says it. More like it hurts him, almost. Good hurt, Mickey thinks.

“Yeah?” Mickey says. “You like it?”

“Fuck yeah,” Ian says, breathless. He pushes himself up, and starts fucking Mickey harder. His dick fills Mickey up, rubs up against that spot inside him, makes his body light up. “Wanted you as soon as I saw you,” he says. “Your ass in those jeans.”

Mickey grips him hard by the shoulders with both hands, pulling him close again. He can smell Ian’s deodorant, and the rising smell of sweat under it. He loves it, breathes it in, savoring it.

Ian pushes deep, then stops. Reaches down between them and starts to jack Mickey’s cock, fast.

“This enough?” Ian asks.

“Huh?” Mickey says. He can’t really think right now, forget about answering whatever the fuck Ian’s asking him.

“You said,” Ian pants, “you wanted to come with something inside you.”

“Uh,” Mickey says. “I— _fuck!_ ” as Ian speeds up a little. _“Yes.”_

“Yes, this is enough?” Ian presses.

“Oh yeah,” Mickey says. “Don’t fucking move,” and he tightens as much as he can on Ian’s cock, once, twice. Ian grips Mickey harder in answer, until they’re spiraling up together, harder and harder, not even moving anymore, just straining against each other’s bodies, as close as they can get.

Then Ian tips the balance, pushes in just a little bit more, his breath warm on Mickey’s neck, and Mickey starts coming, his dick twitching hard in Ian’s hand, his ass squeezing down rhythmically, pulling Ian over the edge with him.

The feeling of Ian’s dick hardening even more inside him sends Mickey into a shuddering little aftershock, and Ian swears. “Too much,” he says, and starts to ease out.

“Fuck,” Mickey agrees, then he takes a deep breath at the sudden emptiness. He slowly lowers his legs, and feels the deep relaxation of a good fuck start to spread through his body. He laughs a little, and turns to look at Ian, lying on his back next to him.

“That . . .” Ian says, and trails off. Mickey reaches out and brushes his thumb against Ian’s hand on the bed next to him. Ian looks over and meets his eyes, a smile growing on his face. Then his gaze drops to Mickey’s mouth, and just like that they’re kissing again, Ian’s hand cupped around the back of Mickey’s neck, and Mickey likes it.

He likes it a lot.

 

Mickey hates that fucking neon rabbit sign. He’d say that familiarity breeds contempt, but he hated it the first time he saw it, so really, the lesson is probably just that Mickey has good judgment about this kind of shit.

He bites an olive off the little plastic sword that came in his drink, and glares at the rabbit and the stupid hat it’s popping in and out of, over and over.

“Need some help there, sir?” Ian asks him, leaning across the bar with a grin. He has a silver dollar in his hand, and he’s rolling it across his knuckles. Fuck, Mickey hates that trick. But he can’t look away.

“Nothing you can help me with here,” Mickey mutters finally, and Ian laughs and flips the coin in the air, then catches it.

“You try to pull that out from behind my ear, you’re gonna lose a finger,” Mickey warns him.

“Nah,” Ian says. “Pretty sure you like my fingers the way they are.”

Mickey . . . doesn’t have a great comeback for that. So he just scowls. Ian smiles again, and leans far enough across the bar to kiss his cheek. “One more hour,” he says. “Why don’t you go get us food at the Thai place?”

Mickey considers, then downs the rest of his drink, grabs Ian by the collar, and tugs him in for a real kiss. Ian presses into it, eager.

“Sixty minutes,” Mickey says when they finally break apart. “You show up in sixty-two, don’t come crying to me when all the spring rolls are gone.”

“Big talk,” Ian says. “You’ll save me one.”

“Guess we’re gonna find out,” Mickey says, and heads for the door.

“Mickey!” Ian calls after him. He turns around. Ian is smirking and holding up two fingers. Someone else might think he’s specifying the number of spring rolls, but Mickey knows better.

He flips him off, and ignores the little pulse of excitement that goes through him. Behind him, he can hear Ian laughing, loud and happy.

It’s gonna be a good night.


End file.
